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by QuidProCrow



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Angst, Break Up, Coffee, M/M, POV Second Person, Past Relationship(s), Rain
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-07-19
Updated: 2011-07-19
Packaged: 2017-10-21 13:31:35
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 735
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/225726
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/QuidProCrow/pseuds/QuidProCrow
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The aftermath of 'Stilts.' Francis and Arthur meet up again two months after their break up and discuss things. Briefly.</p>
            </blockquote>





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**Author's Note:**

> It just didn't seem to end, this fic.  
> I highly suggest reading 'Stilts' before you read this!  
> It was written, once again, without commas. To continue with the writing exercise thing, it was also written in second person.  
> I regret nothing, I tell you.

You wait for a bus with your worst enemy. Your ex. Ex-boyfriend. You stand under flickering streetlights in cold mist with falling rain. It's the kind of situation you imagined in your dreams lately. Rain. Together. Waiting. Perfect. Shortcut to a fallback. A romance. Being back together. Puzzle-piece limbs and tangled fingertips.

But reality is never that kind. There are dark skies and skeleton clouds here.

You think _this is awful._ Lighting cigarettes in this weather never works well. The asphyxiation comes instead with the situation and you take it and struggle to breathe like the _awful whore_ he says you are.

Because you are.

Because that was one of the ways it ended.

Francis is polite. The cold kind of polite that makes you shiver. His words drop like stones into the air. Heavy. Weighted. Troubling.

"How is she? The, ah- woman you had the affair with?" is what he asks. He's not looking at you. Francis' eyes are on the pavement. His hands are on his coffee. He grips it tight. Disguises the way his fingertips shake.

You clear your throat. "Fine," is what you say. You don't want to talk about this. Anything but this. This should've been left in the back of minds. Back of apartments. Back of terraces with falling cigarette ash.

But it's brought up. There's no changing it now.

There's no changing _anything._

"Always glad to hear," is what Francis says next. He sips his coffee. Stares at the ground. His words _hurt._

 _(The words sting. Pierce through shields. Through perfectly layered guards. Through hearts. Spill blood. You can taste it on your tongue.)_

There are so many things you could say. But you're you. You settle for the most blunt. The most stupid. The phrase that will get you in the most trouble.

And you're thinking _I just want to talk to you again._

"It was your fault," is what you say. "Entirely your fault."

Francis scoffs. "Arthur," is what he begins with, "the only thing I am ever guilty of is being human. You- you were the one who jumped to conclusions."

"You were the one who stopped talking," is what you reply with. You're grasping at straws now. You're trying to articulate things properly. You're throwing words around just to make him hurt as much as he hurt you. That may not be possible. "You were the one who walked out."

"You were the one who saw someone else before I came back," is what Francis whispers.

There's silence now. That heavy kind of silence. The kind that falls over quarreling and lost ex-couples. The kind that snuggles into a ribcage and stays there. The kind that leaves cold sheets. Half-filled apartments. Empty teacups. Unorganized lifestyles. Haphazard dinners. Breakups in a cold and lonely terrace over a small misunderstanding.

You open your mouth to say something. You close it when you can't think of anything. It's exactly like before. It's right there. Again. The product of your stupidity. Your carelessness. To know that you could still have this if you wanted to but you can't. He's not letting you back.

And Francis doesn't seem to care. Because that's the way he is. He is perfect. Annoying. Careful. Graceful. Smiling. Stubborn. And he doesn't care about you anymore.

The realization sinks in. Settles in your chest. Your ribcage. Next to the silence. It takes up permanent residence. You really can't escape what you've done. What you've let go. What's slipping through your fingertips. What you can't grab on to.

 _(You try and sort the situation out. You come up with jumbles of disorganized thoughts and meetings and dinners and things that never really worked out right.)_

You sigh.

And you'd like to try. You'd like to say something like _Francis I know this is absolutely overdue and possibly worthless and you don't even really care do you you wonderful tosser you but I'm sorry for everything._

Francis isn't looking at you. He's looking at the pavement. His coffee. His hands. The flickering streetlight. Anywhere but you.

It means so much more than it should.

"It never would've worked out," is what you come up with.

"Not at all," is what Francis agrees.

The bus comes moments later. Screeches to a halt. The doors squeak open and it's ruined. Whatever was even left to begin with.

Francis stands. Hands you his coffee. Gets on the bus.

Leaves.


End file.
